Green, like a frog, but not.

So. There, in my circle of aquaintence, is a someone of whom I am jealous. His/her artistic-lifestyle-successful-blah-blah world makes me, in turn, envious and want to throw up in my mouth just a little, while at the same time wanting to punch them in the head and/or kick them in their shin. As I hear the stories, read the emails, and sit around with them, my jealousy grows. I was very surprised by this when it first happened, but I am a big fan of knowing that the heart and the brain have little control of each other. So. After my fabulous, wonderful, awesome-o vacation in Reno, I came back and had to read the emailed exploits of my L.east F.avorite P.erson (of LFP for short).

Grumpy with reading of LFP's fabulous, wonderous being, I laid down on my bed and had an epiphany: serverely-out-of-proportion ankles. I imagined them having serverely-out-of-proportion ankles. I imagined them having an amazingly difficult time shopping for socks. This brought a grin to my face. After grinning about socks, I imagined how odd they would look wearing shorts or even short-pants that highlighted their imagined ginormous ankles. I smiled. Then...I smiled even bigger. I even started to snicker (though, let it be noted that as a very proper young lady, I don't snicker...much).

I then envisioned said imaginary ankles TWICE as large and laughed twice as much. So. In my world, it turns out that my sarcastic, overly-bitter, little imagination can take out that crabby little green-like-a-frog-but-not envious feeling that settles over me from now to then. Stupid so-and-so: I really hope with all my atoms that they do have a hard time shopping for socks!

An erinku (sometimes she's a bit bitter on Sundays):
Dylan
clawed-open screens
full access to the
wild suburbs

Horrifications

Since January, there has been an almost non-stop series of horrifying realizations. After seven or so months of this, I’m very much done. They have ranged from the horrifying realization that the person across the bus aisle was actually clipping their nails on my morning commute, to the horrifying realization that someone will always pick loudly-crappy music to play on a jukebox. Then there was the horrifying realization that I peed a little on my sandal when in the wild and the horrifying realization the staff coffee really doesn’t get any better, though I try it every day.

This small sample size doesn’t even begin to convey the depths of horror I’ve dealt with for the past while. Though, to be fair, the horror is often interspersed with mortification, which is a nice change of pace. One of my more recent horrifications (is that a word? It should be) is that my lovely, lovely sandals (which suffered from my peeing in the wild adventure referenced earlier) need repaired. They are worn out with much walking. I can’t seem to part with them long enough to get repaired because I love them so very much. And so they wear out more. It’s a worse cycle than Dylan being saddened that I won’t play with toys he’s dropped in the toilet...

And my current horrification is that the Popeye coffee I’m drinking (it’s really that strong) is either highly expanding my consciousness to the point where all random topics are connected by funny paths of logic or the coffee is about to make me super-jittery. Since I’m post-breakfast and pre-lunch, I’m thinking there will soon be a whole lot of shaking going on...

An Erinku:
ankles crossed
lovingly
over my favorite
feet

Random Synapses

As I’m on the extreme butt-end of Generation X (technically, I’m a Twixter), I communicate roughly 97% of the time with sarcasm. I’ve gotten pretty good at it and have lately been working on “Ultimate Sarcasm.” It’s so subtle, that you really need to listen for it in the silences between words. My greatest sense of accomplishment is that people are starting to think I’m being overly sincere about things.

I was actually worried about this when I started to work at the University. As I was bleary-eyed, cranky, and huddled around my coffee, people would pop in and say in a chipper way, “Good Morning! How are you?!” And I would answer with not-so-subtle sarcasm, “Oh, just fabulous!” They would then sincerely answer “That’s great!” I worried about this until my co-worker pointed out that everyone there was pre-coffee and that ears don’t hear sarcasm until caffeinated. But this morning, I figured out that perhaps, just maybe, the “That’s great!” was being said with ULTIMATE SARCASM. And that I missed it completely every time. And as I pondered this while walking, instead of feeling bad about missing a possible sarcastic mentor for myself, I decided to reiterate my long-held feeling that morning people should be illegal.

This also got me to thinking about string porn. There is no connection between the topics, other than both were topics I’ve thought about before. String porn, to be clear, is a catalog that arrives by mail. It is full of violins, cellos, violas, and basses. It is full of music stands, rosin, strings, cleaning rags, and sheet music. It is from Shar Music company and all string players lust after things from this catalog. (Coincidentally, gift certificates to Shar make very nice HOLIDAY GIFTS to the string player(s) in your life.) Whenever my string porn arrives, I wonder if it’s been pawed at by my neighbor violinist. That maybe my catalog arrived a few days earlier but was borrowed and then returned to the mailbox. String porn makes me paranoid.

Just as I came to the realization that string porn makes me paranoid, I felt I was being watched. It turned out I was being stared at by a fuzzy, cute, little squirrel. I was not deceived. I hollered at it, “Minion of Evil, BEGONE!” It turns out I speak biblically to squirrels. It turns out I holler loudly. It turns out I was also being stared at by a groundskeeper. It turns out I walk quickly away from situations like that.

An Erinku:
my skirt missing button
right at crotch level
fabulous!